


Subtle Art

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [15]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Double Drabble, Drabble Sequence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 04:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9802835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: Circa 300, 1295, 1736: England, Scotland and Wales share three first kisses with France.





	1. England

**Author's Note:**

> Had bad writer's block lately (and my new and very recalcitrant laptop hasn't been helping matters!) so thought I'd try and get the creative juices flowing again with some double drabbles to ease my way in, thus this...

* * *

* * *

 

**Circa 300, Provincia Britannia**

 

Gallia does not much care for Britannia.  
  
He dislikes its bland food, dour people, and perpetually sullen skies. He despises the long sea journey he is forced to endure whenever he is dragged there in Rome's wake.  
  
The province himself, however, is a delight, because he, in his turn, claims to despise Gallia.  
  
Gallia appreciates most that which he has to fight for the hardest, and Britannia has proven one of his more stubborn opponents.  
  
He meets every smile with a scowl, every kind word with a curse, and a kiss, it transpires, with spluttered vulgarities so lurid they raise a blush to even Gallia's cheeks.  
  
Britannia's own cheeks are a bright, heated red, even though the touch of Gallia's lips had been as soft and fleeting as the brush of a butterfly's wings. "What the hell was that for?" he demands, raising his fists threateningly.  
  
"You looked gloomy," Gallia says.  
  
Britannia glowers at him. "And why the fuck did you think _that_ would help?"  
  
Gallia had not thought, simply acted on an instinct that has always served him well before. Britannia confounds all his best intentions.  
  
Still, Gallia will persist, as Britannia cannot continue to do so forever, surely. **  
**


	2. Scotland

**1295, Scotland**

 

Écosse has always hoarded his words as closely as his coins before, doling them out with a miser's hand.   
  
_"I will fight for you."_  
  
And until now, until this very moment, France had thought his blood ran just as cool and slow as his speech.  
  
 _"I will take every blow for you if I have to."_  
  
There is a storm in Écosse's eyes and fire in his voice, both crackling and blazing with raw power.  
  
 _"I will_ die _for you."_  
  
France shivers. His own body feels frozen; his stomach leaden and his lungs filled with ice.   
  
He can barely find enough breath to say, "But you cannot die, Écosse."   
  
"I would, though," Écosse insists. "If you needed that of me, I would."  
  
There is so much heat in him that France instinctively draws closer, in the hopes it might help him to thaw.   
  
Écosse flinches when France takes hold of his shoulders, but he does not pull away. His gaze is forthright, almost challenging, and then his lips part in an invitation France thinks it would be foolish to refuse.  
  
His mouth is just as scalding as his words had promised, and his kiss sears France down to his core. **  
**


	3. Wales

**1736; France**

 

After their first night together, all of Scotland's kisses had been diffident, as though, with each one, he had to be persuaded anew that the experience would be an enjoyable one; something which France soon found tiring, and, eventually, dispiriting.  
  
The two, brief kisses he had shared with England had felt like mere preludes to a fight.  
  
Wales meets him with all the passion that his brothers had lacked. All of the skill, too, which France would never have thought to imagine him capable of, as he has always seemed the shy, retiring type; content to fade into the long shadows cast by both Scotland and England.  
  
Their meeting had been a chance one, the kiss, an impulse born from a questioning glance on Wales' part, a moment's curiousity on France's, one he had suspected would yield nothing but disappointment.  
  
Instead, the moment stretches, deepens, and France discovers he doesn't want it to end quite yet.  
  
Eventually, though, he breaks away for long enough to suggest that they retire to his bedchamber.  
  
Wales doesn't blush as France would have expected him to. He doesn't protest, or stammer, or hesitate.  
  
He takes tight hold of France's hand and leads the way.


End file.
